


Tomorrows and Yesterdays

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kink Meme, M/M, References to Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-08
Updated: 2013-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-24 04:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/630156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holden's devotion had restored him, but all Haytham felt was regret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tomorrows and Yesterdays

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _Come on, Forsaken people, why doesn't this ship exist? Holden spent MONTHS nursing Haytham back to health and getting him back on his feet when Haytham was half-conscious, delirious with fever and dying. So how about some Holden taking care of Haytham, yeah?_
> 
> _Bonus points if Haytham still feels guilty about what happened to Holden, and now even guiltier since Holden had pretty much just spent months at Haytham's bedside being a nurse._
> 
> Slightly tweaked from the original version I posted on the meme.

**I.**

It hurt to see him like this.

Jim had never thought of Haytham Kenway as an individual capable of displaying weakness, but here he was, dancing precariously on the verge of death. Face ashen, he looked far too frail for his liking, and it all seemed so _wrong_. This... This sort of end was not the one he’d envisioned for Haytham; there was no glory, no grandeur--no grand circumstance. It was altogether too ordinary an end for such an extraordinary individual.

Elbows propped up on his knees, he held his head in his hands and scrubbed at his face. Exhaustion was his constant companion now, as was the ache--the ever present ache that reminded Jim that a part of him had died back in Damascus, but still, he would not leave Haytham’s bedside. There was always something to be done: a dressing to change, a moist towel to apply, a medication to administer.

That, at least, was what he told Jenny whenever she asked, whenever she tried to relieve him of his duties.

The truth, however, was that he sought those rare moments of lucidity that came every now and then. Haytham’s eyes would clear, and for a few precious minutes, the man would look at him and acknowledge his presence before succumbing to the fever and pain once more. If he was lucky, those parched lips would even whisper a few words--his name perhaps.

 _These_ were the small things that Jim clung to and made it all worth living for.

He would hold Haytham’s hands at times, allow that calloused grip to crush his fingers in the middle of a delirious bout or a surge of pain. The strength he found there was so diminished though; he could still remember the feel of those hands pressed against his hips, sliding down his spine--the power and surety of them. As Haytham all but writhed in agony, Jim would murmur encouragement to the man and promise him that all would be well with time. All the positivity that he felt was devoted to aiding in Haytham’s recovery, and in a way, Jim was pouring his own vitality into his care.

Jim ate little and slept even less--something Jenny often commented on. As the months dragged by, he became even more of a shadow than he had been: his eyes were hollow, his cheeks gaunt, and his hair lank. Haytham, however, was slowly but surely returning to life under his careful care. The color returned to his skin, his rest was less fitful, and most importantly, he would be awake and alert for longer and longer periods of time.

They would talk in hushed voices then. Their choices of conversation were never very deep, but it didn’t seem to matter. The weather, favorite flavors of tea, and happenings around the chateau: Jim made it a point to never allow their chatter to become too entrenched in matters that would cause worry; he was quick to cut off any darker topics. It was his hope to see Haytham crack a smile, brief though it may be, and hear him chuckle, quiet and reserved. The sound of his amusement still sent a slight shiver down Jim’s spine, and did they not say that laughter was the best medicine?

Seeing Haytham stand on his own two feet and walk again was one of the happiest days of Jim’s life. The grace of his stride and the steadiness of his step were not quite there, but he was capable of taking care of himself once more. It filled him with a warmth that he never thought he’d feel again, and for a moment, his parched soul was renewed. Haytham had given him purpose, and now he had fulfilled his duty; his friend and companion--the individual he still loved and cherished--was his own man once again.

Tomorrow, he could rest at last. Tomorrow, he could find peace.

**II.**

It hurt to see him like this.

When they had first met, Holden had been filled with life, to the point that Haytham thought him annoying at times. The chatter had been incessant, and on more than one occasion, he’d given serious thought to leaving this man behind. Their relationship had evolved, though, shaping into something far more comfortable and intimate over the years. Now he would have given anything to have that loud and exuberant company instead of this individual draped and prepped for burial. 

He was not the sort of man to apologize. His own life invited many tragedies, and in a way, those who had the fortune (or misfortune) of becoming a part of it often came out of their acquaintance for the worse: by Haytham’s hand or otherwise. For the most part, he was unrepentant about this facet of his life, but with Holden...

Haytham owed him so many apologies.

The shovel was heavy in his hands, and sweat beaded on his brow despite the cold of the air and the light frost on the ground. He was nowhere near fit enough to be doing this, but Haytham refused to allow anyone else to assist. Jenny looked on from a distance, a single hand pressed lightly to her lips; she said nothing and would never speak a word about Holden after this day, and Haytham would never ask her to.

He had never apologized--not properly, at least--for what had happened in Damascus; indeed, it was a topic he tended to avoid. Haytham noticed the change that had overcome Holden, of course. How could he not? He remembered warm skin beneath his fingertips, a beautiful body that loved to be caressed, but after that incident, there had been nothing but shame. Holden was no longer the individual he had been--his spirit broken and fragmented.

Holden never allowed Haytham to touch him again.

Over and over, he would try to find a way to beg forgiveness, but the words came with great difficulty. For all his eloquence, when it came to apologizing, Haytham would stumble over his speech, and Holden would simply look at him, expression deadened, as if wordlessly telling him not to speak. So Haytham would hold his tongue and keep his silence, keep it until it was too late.

Injury and illness would steal all sensibility from him, and the pain he felt would take away his voice and turn it into cries, shouting and screaming meaningless words and terrible sounds. Dimly, Haytham recalled the shadow of Jenny by his side, but the face that he remembered most clearly during those dark hours was that of Holden--his pale countenance and his ginger hair.

As the fever ran its course and the healing process continued, he would begin to recall more and more, and again, Haytham could not help but feel guilt. Holden was still in pain--he could see it in his eyes and his drawn features--but here he was, nursing him back to health. 

But for all of Holden’s faith and loyalty, Haytham was now alone once more. The January air nipped and bit at his exposed skin, but he continued to stand at the foot of the freshly covered grave, leaning heavily against his shovel. If only he had apologized or thanked the man... No, it would have taken more than words to save Holden, this Haytham knew, but regret still gnawed at him.

Yesterday, Haytham had lost a brother in arms, a most favorite companion, a friend, and a lover. Yesterday, he had missed his opportunity to say goodbye.


End file.
